Wells
by Treeborn Dreamer
Summary: A one-shot about a farmer, his neighbor the lady, and buckets of water.


Well, I managed to come up with another little fluff-piece one-shot. This is actually a redone version of a piece I wrote four or five years ago, which you can find on my old account, here: s/6170330/1/Wells (Be nice, it was a long time ago...)  
This piece is based on one of my favorite songs of all time: "Wells" by the Expendables. Listening to it either before or while you read would help, but isn't necessary. If you like it, check out my other stuff! Review and favorite if you would be so kind, and I'll see you around!

Wells

Treeborn Dreamer

He cranked and cranked with all his might, sweat beading on his brow and face screwed up in concentration, but the bucket stayed at the bottom of the well. He stood up, panting and crossing his arms in front of him. Around him, on his farm, everything worked as well as the day it had been built, aside from the damned well, he thought to himself as he shook his head and turned towards the gate, grabbing the spare bucket by his feet.

As he strode towards the gate, an old red fox looked up at him from the grass, ears cocked and head tilted to one side. The farmer gave it a quick pat on the head as he walked out the gate, closing it behind him with a flourish. The fox watched him depart with eyes half-closed, before losing interest in the orange-suited man and laying back down in the tall grass.

The country road was buzzing with the life of a cool, late summer; insects hummed as they danced in the air and grass, leaves swished and swayed with the cool wind from the north. The farmer inhaled deeply as he walked downhill, away from his farm: the scent of summer was too precious to waste.

As he walked, the farmer sang a small tune he had learned as a child. "I walk the road, between your house and mine, I held the bridge as it collapsed. I hope the man at the gate will let me through, unless he's holding on to you."

_He had sat there in the garden, playing in the dirt and laughing with a girl his age. She had made him promise to remember the song, and to sing it every time that they were together. And in the face of her conviction, he had smiled and promised._

Two miles of road lead to a small, wooden bridge, aged and weary over a gurgling river; shallow enough to be waded, but wide enough to provide a reason not to. The farmer tested his footing before stepping onto it, treading lightly as he crossed.

Just past the bridge, a large wall greeted the farmer; imposing, white stone walls that went as far as the eye could see, tall enough that the other side was as good as invisible to him. Yet despite his forebodings, he followed the path straight to the gate, manned by a stern-looking man about his age. Long black hair was tied up behind him, and piercing eyes scanned every inch of him; the farmer gulped, and felt as if he stood before the judge of the afterlife.

The farmer held up his bucket, and the gatekeeper looked inside it, then nodded. Slowly, the gate swung open, and the farmer followed the gatekeeper towards the enormous compound that sat behind the wall.

They passed building after building, each seeming more grand than the last. From doorways and windows, the farmer noticed eyes were examining him, noticing the dirtiness of his clothes, his unkempt hair, the marks on his face...

The gatekeeper stopped and knocked suddenly on a door, fitted into the side of the grandest building yet. The farmer stood quietly behind the gatekeeper, his bucket held behind his back as the door slid open gently.

A pale, young woman stood in the doorway, lavender eyes framed by a porcelain face and dark blue hair. She glanced between the gatekeeper and the farmer, then dismissed the gatekeeper with a nod, who bowed and walked away.

"Can I draw some water, Lady, from your well?" The farmer asked matter-of-factly, letting the bucket fall to his side. "Can I draw some water," he repeated, then clarified, "because mine has failed." The lady looked at him with one raised eyebrow and a slight upturn in the corner of her mouth.

"The bucket won't come up," the farmer explained further, digging his foot into the ground nervously, "no matter how hard I crank, the bucket won't come up. I think it sank." He finished, sheepishly. The lady held back a giggle and nodded, stepping into a pair of sandals and gesturing for the farmer to follow her.

As they walked, his nerves began to get the better of him; his heart was beating quickly as he noticed the constant, watchful eyes from every window.

"How has your garden grown?" he blurted as they passed a fantastic vegetable patch, tended by two other pale women with dark hair. "Is there fruit on your tree? Do you need a laborer to pull up those weeds?" He asked as they turned and found the well, nestled in the center of a large, circular garden. She eyed him over; he was sweating and shaking, and his eyes were averted from her. She giggled softly and gestured towards the flower patches. He let out a deep sigh and got to work, falling to his knees and grabbing graceful fistfuls of weeds, uprooting them in one swift motion.

The lady stood back and watched him work, his bucket by his side and forgotten. As he was busy, she glided past him and took the bucket.

The farmer, oblivious to the lady's doings, began to sing softly as he worked, his nervousness washed away by his busy hands and occupied mind. "Oh I am so lonely, baby, in my house on the hill." he crooned to himself, his voice faint and barely above a whisper. "Oh I am so lonely, baby, this silence kills."

The sun rose farther overhead, and as it reached its peak, the farmer stood and admired his handiwork; thousands of weeds pulled and laid in a pile, the flowers they once choked stretching towards the sun. He turned around and saw the lady, sitting on a bench in the shade with a bucket of water at her feet. He looked around and realized the time, wiping the sweat from his brow and grinning sheepishly. He bowed gratefully and took his bucket as he turned towards the gate, the lady smiling to herself as he left.

The walk back home was hot, but the farmer did not notice; the bucket of water was heavy, but he did not pay it any mind. When he returned to the farm, he did his chores with the speed of ten men, smiling to himself like an idiot; the well was refitted with a new bucket, the crops tended and watered, and the fox fed. The fox watched him from the fence, eyes barely open, and as the day dragged on it pushed itself to its feet, shook, and padded over to the porch.

Just before the sun set on the day, the farmer pulled himself onto the porch and sat down on his porch-swing, looking out on the surrounding area. Past his fields, past the river, he could see the faint outline of the compound that had seemed so large and imposing in person. He chuckled and patted the head of the fox that lay next to him.

He sighed, and reached into his shirt, pulling out a small locket in the shape of a leaf. He clicked it open, letting the cover swing away and reveal the small photograph inside: a young boy with spiky blond hair and a young girl with long, dark hair, posing together on a bench in a garden

"I wish that I could sit in your garden again." He sighed, staring at the locket. "And watch the stars at night, from your bed." He closed the locket, letting it fall against his chest as he stood, stretched, and walked into the house, the sleepy fox on his tail.

After he had gone to sleep, a slender figure sneaked over his gate and to the well in front of his home. The figure stood over it and cranked the bucket up slowly and quietly, taking a small knife and cutting it off of the rope. They tucked it under their arm, made sure that the farmer had not woken, and stole back over the fence and away to the compound across the river. The bucket thief smiled a thin smile as she hid the bucket.

"See you tomorrow." she whispered towards him, and her lavender eyes twinkled in the moonlight.


End file.
